Fissile Missiles Kiss Miss Sky

Innocent business it is, selling only to buy back her clitoris, Five steps forward into backward deliverance,Left myself in the main receptacle she uses,Help to mop up all her anonymous ghosts with all of their indifferent residues.

Robot lego soul is crying useless,For faint glimpses of her sighing as she kills,Embodying her body,To pour bottles of crushed black hearts into glasses for us to swill.

Gargling pill-shaped sentiments,Allowing the ghost of her to be my psyche’s last paying tenant,Leasing release in a barrel of self-evidence,Killing all the kind souls to make way for the hell of it.

Wine paint splashed across my mind for me to face,To plaster across my forehead in a gesture of grace,A feeling beggar, lying prostrate to suddenly standing demanding you call me mister,Ministering to these young half-formed blistering heart-shaped signs reading ‘kiss her’ but warn her of the risks here.